Desperado
by streco
Summary: Where were the curls? He'd been able to see them before, just over the crowd, but now they weren't there. His eyes raked across the bar. Cups. Sugar packets. Behind the counter, a drink machine. Problem: there was blood on it. SM, some DL
1. Curls

_Desperado

* * *

_

a/n: First CSI: NY fic evarrrr, whadddup d00ds! I'm streco, aka stephanie pascal. I'm here, from RENT fandom, Twilight fandom, and Maximum Ride fandom alike. This story is basically smacktastic, so try to keep up, eh loves?

All information I get on Stella's and Mac's backgrounds comes from wikipedia. I haven't seen all the episodes so if I'm incorrect please politely inform me of this, or any mistakes I make, so I can hit myself silly and fix it. :)

* * *

1

"Lady sings the blues so well  
As if she means it, as if it's hell down here  
In the smoke-filled world where the jokes are cold  
They don't laugh at jokes, they laugh at tragedies."

* * *

"_What?_"

"You heard me."

"Yeah, but—_what?_"

"Idea was not mine," Mac waved a hand through the air in front of him, chuckling under his breath. "Danny's. 'Sadday night,'" he quoted in his best impersonation of the infamous accent, "'le's all go out and get drinks togetha in a bar, whaddya say? Le's go _clubbin_'." He chuckled again. "I kid you not, he wants us to have a playdate."

A crooked smile crept onto Stella's face. "Not such a bad idea, I guess. If we can prevent him and Flack from getting absolutely smashed again, it might actually be a good time."

Mac's memory flashed back to the eventful night in which Danny had stood on a table and danced suggestively to "My Humps," with Flack providing the backgrounds. It was an unfortunate sight to see, even though he'd laughed so hard he'd almost pissed himself.

"I'll be sure to bring my video camera this time," he decided.

Stella laughed, straightened up her papers, and rose to her feet. She gave Mac a pat on the shoulder as she walked by. "I'm calling it a night, you coming with?"

He didn't turn around after she passed by, instead staring thoughtfully at the chair she'd just left from. "Nah, I'm gonna stick around a little longer." He turned around slowly, watching her stalk away, her curls bouncing.

"See you tomorrow night, then?"

"See you then," he confirmed, and smiled as she looked back and winked.

* * *

"_Why don't we do it in the road?_ _/ Why don't we do it in the road? / Why don't we do it in the road? / Why don't we do it in the road? / No one will be watchin' us, / why don't we do it in the road?_"

The frontwoman of Styx and Stoned wailed on the dimly-lit stage, her hair fluorescent colors and her voice just raspy enough to pull it off. Mac stood, admittedly with a headache building, a coke with rum in his hand. The only person who'd remained with him, Stella, had returned to the bar to get another drink, leaving him alone with wildly dancing people decades younger than him He felt old. He felt sick. For an odd reason, he felt nervous.

Though he'd never been one to have useful gut feelings—for instance, the day Clarie died, he'd felt a good day coming—something made him listen to this one. Nervously, he counted team members. Hawkes was talking to the tall brunette, Lindsay was dancing with Danny, Flack was dancing with the nearly-naked blonde, and the top of Stella's hair was visible behind a large crowd of people moshing.

Mac sighed and backed up, sitting down on the booth he and Stella had been staring. The feeling was probably nothing, as it always was. If it wasn't, he'd find out soon enough, and he gently patted the gun on his belt that he always kept on him. When you were a cop, he always claimed, you never had a day off.

"Mac!" Danny called from across the room, waving his arms frantically. He peeled himself away from Lindsay, tipsily trying to navigate over to his boss. "What are you doin', eh? C'mon, this is supposed to be _fun_. Where'd Stella go? You two need to _dance_."

Boldly, he captured Mac's arm and dragged him toward where Stella was returning with her martini. Stealing the olive and instructing them to "have a little fun, huh?", he returned to Lindsay, dancing in a way that only the younger Samaritans of New York could pull off.

"Why do I regret coming?" Mac asked, as Styx and Stoned began their next song.

"Because you're not twenty-five," Stella shouted back, and pointed toward the front door. "Want to come outside with me for a second? I can't breathe in here."

The two of them exited the club, stepping out into a perfect New York evening. It was early fall, summer's spirit still idly soaking the city in oblivion until the cool winter months drove everyone indoors.

The cloudless sky beckoned the two of them, and they subconsciously moved closer, each not wanting to ruin the moment of perfect silence between them.

"Remind me to kill Danny," Stella murmured, and Mac laughed loudly.

"It's because you're not twenty-five," he retorted out of the side of his mouth, not looking at her. She smacked him playfully, smirking.

"I was never into the whole clubbing thing. A bar is fine. Dinner is fine. But clubbing? Seriously? There's too many STDs to choose from, and creepy drunk men to be hit on by. Definitely not my thing."

"Oh, really?" Mac challenged. "Not even when you were younger?"

She smiled out at the street, watching as a taxi drove by. "Want to know the truth?"

"If I'm worthy."

She hit him again.

"Okay, okay. Shoot."

"I always dreamed I'd meet my dream man in a coffee shop," she confided in him, looking up to make sure he wasn't looking at her like she was crazy. Of course he wasn't, though. Mac wasn't one to jump to conclusions, or to judge at a first statement. He listened to the whole thing, and then determined whether you were a freak or not.

"I would step up and order my chai tea, he'd be behind me. He'd pay for me, and I would smile shyly but do a visual overview to make sure he wasn't a creep. When I made sure he wasn't, he'd comment on my choice. I'd take a sip of his hazelnut, or French vanilla, or whatever. We'd listen to the stupid sixties elevator music that they always played. Or maybe it'd be a sweet ballad. Whatever they were playing. But we'd sit and drink coffee, and talk. At our wedding, we'd dance to that stupid sixties doo-wop shit we both hated. But it would be our song. The song we met during."

Mac studied the trees in front of the club, watching the busy and oblivious passerby. "Why a coffee shop though? Why not a Stop and Shop?"

She sighed. "Everyone drinks coffee. It's universal. It's warm. It calms you down, but it excites you. It can't make you drunk or angry. It's fucking _coffee_."

The grin on Mac's face might as well have been stapled there. "Leave it to you to do things extremely unconventional. When you get married, I'm playing sixties doo-wop tunes the whole time."

"Fine."

"And I'll pour chai tea all over your wedding dress."

"Whatever floats your boat."

"And your bridesmaids."

She looked up at him, a wild, childish gleam in her eyes. "Now that's just too far."

His laugh lit up the night, and she smiled pleasantly. He pointedly eyed her empty glass. "Come on, let's go back in and you can fill that back up." They turned and returned into the smoky bar, where a slow dance was now taking place.

"_Desperado, oh, you ain't getting' no younger / your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home / and freedom, oh freedom, well, that's just some people talkin' / your prison is walking through this world all alone._"

Stella smiled and stalked off to the bar, and he followed her hair for a minute before it disappeared behind a crowd of slow dancing couples.

He sat down at the same booth again, looking outside at the setting autumn. The trees had begun to change, their reds and oranges blazing in the crystal clear night. He picked a star and stared at it, admiring the way it twinkled, its own individual thing in a sky of billions of others like it.

Styx and Stoned were still capturing the night, the lead singer's voice now soft and delicate, floating over the swaying bodies. He watched as Lindsay and Danny shared a short, peaceful kiss, and looked away, trying not to let the envy set in.

"_Don't your feet grow cold in the winter time? / The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine / It's hard to tell the night from the day / you're losin' all your highs and lows / ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?_"

Happy couples always made him think of Claire. In his memory, she was there, always there. The nightmares still came—the ones where he couldn't find her, where she disappeared. Where he'd wake up, surprised why she wasn't there. Then the fatigue would melt away and he'd realize that she'd been gone a long, long time. That she was dead, just ashes in the wind, a vague memory of a specific event that America could never, never forget.

He missed her. But more than that, he missed the emotion. He missed unrequited love. He missed the ability to trust, the ability to give himself to someone completely and not be afraid for them to lose it. Not only did Claire lose her life, but she lost Mac's. She had taken it with her when she'd died, and now he was trying to find the pieces. He'd started at ground zero, but the rest had blown away in the vacant September midday years ago, and he had to find them before it was too late.

"_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? / Come down from your fences, open the gate._"

He gritted his teeth at the first thought that came to his mind: Stella. She was the only one who could make him feel whole again. Was it because she was his best friend? Closer than any spouse or sibling? Or was it because he loved her? His feelings were so tangled that he couldn't even identify them anymore. Who was he? Where the hell had Mac Taylor gone?

"_It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you._"

A heavy sigh slipped through his lips and he looked up, pushing his empty Coke and rum cup away from him. Actual question, where the hell had Stella Bonasera gone? Literally?

He stood up. "Stella?" he shouted, and wove through the crowd. There was that gut feeling again, bleeding through his system, clouding his head, making the room spin. Where were the curls? He'd been able to see them before, just over the crowd, but they weren't there.

He walked up to the bar and rapped on it a few times with his fist. "Hey," he called behind the desk, but nobody came to his service. He pounded on the little bell a few times. "Hey!"

His eyes raked across the bar. Drinks. Sugar packets. Behind the counter, a drink machine.

Problem: there was blood on it.

He leaped over the bar and drew his gun out. "NYPD!" he screamed, kicking the door to the back room open (he always felt a little bit badass when he kicked doors open, though he wouldn't allow himself to examine the fact at the particular moment). _Where are they? NYP-fuckin'-D, they better get their asses out here._ "Stella?" he roared, but there wasn't a response except for the sound of Desperado's closing chords and goodbyes and kisses goodnight, the smell of sex calming and the soft fragrance of love blossoming in the emptying club.

Just then, the door to outside swung open and a tall, tan man with naïve brown eyes came through. When he saw Mac, he looked up, and rose his hands.

And they were covered in blood.

The last lyrics set upon him like the weight of a million bricks, suffocating him as he tried to keep his stance.

"_You better let somebody love you, before it's too late_."

* * *

a/n: Hope you enjoyed it, **songcred** at the beginning: "Lady" by Regina Spektor. First song by Styx and Stond: "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" by The Beatles. Last song: "Desperado" by the Eagles. Next chapter should be up soon, I am SOOO busy so nobody kill me if it takes a little while.


	2. Late

2.

"Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog,  
where no one notices the contrast of white on white  
and in between the moon and you the angels get a better view,  
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right."

* * *

"_Flack!_"

Mac's voice sliced through the club like a missile, casting silence over the lighthearted atmosphere. "What did you do with her?" he charged after the man, taking his collar in his clenched fists. The thug, frozen with fear, was nothing but a moose in headlights, heavy and deadly, unaware of his strength at the moment. "_Where is she!_"

Flack came almost comically launching over the bar and did a secret agent tumble into the room, smashing into some cardboard boxes and shooting to his feet. He pulled out his gun at once, his philosophy of work scarily similar to Mac's. Danny was clumsily at his heels though not as fortunate, but Mac didn't have time or patience to cringe when he smashed into the pots and pans.

The large man pointed a quivering hand out the door that was still swinging in the light breeze, and Mac didn't turn around. "Deal with this one!" he ordered, and pushed by him.

"Wait!" Danny cut him off. "Mac, you gatta tell us what's goin' on, at least. Where the hell is Stel—?"

"All over his hands," Mac seethed, and took off into the night, gun cocked at his side. He realized he was jumping to conclusions, but what else could he assume? Stella's disappearance, blood on the counter, all over the man's hands and shirt. In a split second Mac had hit speed dial two—Stella was only second to his own voicemail—and pressed the phone to his ear.

Before the person on the other end even spoke his mouth opened and her name fell out. "Stella?" his voice was drenched in anxiety, his knees knocking and hands shaking.

"Mac," she breathed in relief, and he felt oxygen pour into his lungs. Her tone was soft and suffocated.

In the background, so faint that Mac had to strain to hear it, a voice said, "Tell him that you're okay." Stella's phone volume was always turned all the way up, and he constantly nagged her about it, but he made a vow then and there to never say another word about it.

"I'm okay," she whispered, but her voice revealed the exact opposite.

Stella was the strongest woman he'd ever known, hands down. She didn't just give up easily. But by the sound of the way she was speaking, she had already run out of options. She didn't have a vest on, her gun wasn't with her, nothing.

"Stella, listen—"

Shuffling and static cut him off. She sneezed twice. "Get your gray beard off of me! God, what are you, albino? Your skin is as pale as the snow and your hair is almost the same color! You must be at least ten years older than me, why don't you _act _that way!"

A growl answered her little speech, and then a muffled, but loud, thud. She cried out.

"Stella, forget that! Listen to me—you have to—"

"We're on the corner of Broadway and 6th," she told her captor, "you think no one will see this? Who are you, and what do you want? Give me your name! What the hell is that you're driving? A red Jeep 4x4? In _New York_? Clearly you can't be a local—oh wait, your license plate says—"

Two more thuds, a louder, more pained cry.

What the hell was she doing? His mind raced fervently. She was practically egging him on, revealing information about the man, making him angry.

Then the cylinders clinked and he understood.

Flack was coming up behind him now, but Mac burst into a sprint, taking a sharp left and heading toward Broadway. "Stella! Stay with me, we're coming, _do you hear me? _Don't let him hurt you, we're—"

"_NO!_"

Two words came to Mac's mind when she screamed: _bloody murder_.

He instantly stopped in his tracks. "What? _What? _Tell me what's happening, Stella—talk me through this—!"

"No, no!" she sounded choked, her throat gurgling. Mac vaguely felt his heart shatter into a thousand pieces and then blow away, but it was nothing new. It'd happened before.

"_MAC!_" she screeched,

"_Stella—_!"

A gunshot pierced the air, but in two places. Over the phone, and in the New York city streets somewhere. Her scream instantly cut off, and the line went dead.

Mac's blood turned to ice, clogging his veins, his heart slowing down.

Flack had heard the shot, too, how it had reverberated through the empty air that was suddenly filled with Stella.

"Mac," Flack said wearily, patronizing his boss with absolutely terrified eyes. Mac couldn't make words come out.

"Mac," Flack said, louder this time, more clear. "What the _hell _is happening?!"

Just like that, Mac's legs were moving again, a blur beneath him, flying across the pavement. Adrenaline melted the ice and even though he wasn't sure where he was going, his brain knew. The world was turning in slow motion but he was flying, though there was the feeling of anxiety that he wasn't getting any closer, and she was slipping away, forever, forever, just like his Claire had years ago.

He wouldn't believe believe Stella was dead—she _couldn't _die, she was _Stella—_but he couldn't deny the uselessness he felt. All of a sudden it was September and he was running toward the fire in the sky, running toward the woman he loved, consumed in death and ash.

"Oh, _God_," he choked under his breath. Not another. Not again. "_STELLA!_"

Nearly tripping with every lunge he made, he nearly doubled his pace. Adrenaline screamed in his blood, and he couldn't hear anymore, the deafening silence was closing in on him and all around him was black and white—the world was void of color, and all he felt was her, everywhere; in the air, on his skin, burning in the back of his throat.

He reached the corner of the streets and searched wildly, his eyes flickering back and forth, gun drawn. Flack roared up behind him and skidded to a stop, panting like he'd just run a marathon.

A man jogged up next to them, first looking at Mac's gun and then the badge Flack had produced, which was now clenched in his hand awkwardly as he hacked.

"Officers? You okay?"

Mac had since reached his limit. He felt his existence pulling apart at the seams. When Claire had died, he'd had Stella. Through everything, he'd had Stella. Always. Stella was his rock, Stella was what kept him from falling apart. And where was Stella now? With a murderer. Blood on hands, blood on a counter. A scream in the night. A gunshot already forgotten by NYC.

He wouldn't admit she was dead to himself. Because she couldn't be.

"Sir?" the man asked again, touching Mac's shoulder tenderly.

The ex-marine pivoted and rammed the man into a brick wall near the alley they'd just turned from.  
"What have you seen all night? Where have you been? _Who killed her?_" His breaths came in shallow gasps, greedily grabbing at the potent air around him. She'd been here. He knew it. But now there was nothing but an empty midnight and a puddle of blood.

"Mac!" Flack exclaimed, looking up. Quickly, he pulled his boss off of the innocent bystander, not believing what he was seeing. Mac _never _snapped. After Frankie, he'd been more protective of Stella, but not like this.

Don pushed Mac away, watching as the older man leaned against a streetlight post, trying to hold himself together. He didn't make eye contact with either of the other men.

"We...we were talking," he huffed, still trying to catch his breath. "I kept thinking about Claire, and how that in... everything—my nightmares, memories, thoughts, deja vu, _everything—_she had turned into Stella. She keeps me going, Flack," he finished, but promptly shut his mouth, realizing how extremely out of character he was being tonight. He looked at the pole, punched it once, and then stared up at the sky. There was that star again, happy, alone, glittering.

Flack shook Bystander Ted's hand and walked to Mac's side. "Mac," he said, wrapping an arm around the older man's shoulders. "Hey, listen to me. It's Stella we're talking about here. She's not going down without a fight, and she's not gonna let herself die this way. You know her. C'mon."

Mac shook his head and stared at the midnight once more before turning to Flack. "Yeah," he managed, and that was when his phone rang, a pleasant interruption.

"Tayl—"

"_Mac_," Danny cut him off, sighing loudly. "Do you mind tellin' us what the hell's goin' on? You run out, leavin' us with a bloody boxing champ who won't say a peep, no vic, and bloody napkins as your evidence? Sure, and then you run out with your gun and take Flack with you. Thanks for all the info, man, 'preciate it."

"Stella's gone," Mac said simply, keeping his voice as even as he could. He tried to put the fact that Stella was his best friend behind him. He was a CSI, and that was his identity as of now.

Flack slipped the phone out of his hand and walked away, scolding Danny for being such a "loud-mouth prick-ass piece of shit."

Mac put on his work face and pushed Stella out of his mind as best he could. There was a job that needed to be done if he wanted to see her again, and he would do anything, sacrifice anything, to finish that job.

* * *

a/n: Thanks for all the brilliant reviews! I really appreciate it, guys. I had a review that Mac was a tad OOC last chapter, I'm sure he was moreso in this chapter, but I'll fix that asap. This is just how I feel Mac would respond to fearing that Stella is dead – I feel like he sees her as his saving grace, the thread that keeps his seams together.

**Songcred **goes to the Counting Crows for their song "Round Here." Great band. :D


	3. Isolation

* * *

3.

"'Cause it's 5 o'clock, the hour stops the sunlight,  
the buildings shade the masquerade and kill time,  
here we're nothin' more than fools and whores and sad highs,  
through the summer sand, we're living in a wasteland."

* * *

As she rolled back and forth on the floor of the van, the only conscious thought she could process was his name, simply because it had always helped her before. Though she'd never openly admit it, it was true. Mac always saved her in one way or another, physically or mentally. Whenever she felt like giving up, she thought of Mac, and suddenly the strength to go on was available; abundant, even.

So now, as she lay with her wrists tied behind her back, scrubbed raw by the rope, she kicked as she thought of Mac. She screamed against the cloth that had been balled up, shoved into her mouth, and taped over. In her head, there he was—the voice comforting her on the phone, the man saving her from her own apartment. Smiling, laughing, working. Trying his hardest to find her and save her life.

She stopped writhing and stared at the van's floor. Hot tears stung her eyes pitifully. Her Glock. That was all she needed—her gun. She was free if she had that.

But she didn't, and she would have to improvise.

The van jerked to a halt and her captor left the driver's seat. Something she hadn't expected surprised her—a second door slam.

The back doors of the van flew open, ushering the previously warm but now frosty breeze into her prison. Roughly, the man heaved her to her feet, dragging her out of the warmer captivity.

"Don't try any tricky shit," he advised, and produced a shotgun from the back of the car, "or you both die."

"_Both?_" she questioned, and started to turn.

A shot rang out right by her ear, temporarily deafening her, and she cried out lowly. Someone punched her back.

"Keep walking," he instructed. "Call me Isaac. We're going to a warehouse, and you're going to die."

There was scuffling, and then there was a boy walking next to her—at least six feet tall, pale as a ghost, but not any more than eighteen—with a sickly bruise blossoming on his cheek. He looked terrified. She attempted to smile reassuringly at him, but with the state she was in, it probably looked more bitter and sarcastic than anything.

"Why?" Stella whispered at Isaac, and he flashed an ugly grin, dangling a blindfold between his fingers.

"Why not, _Detective?_"

* * *

"Mac, Mac, _Mac!_" Danny flew to his feet and crossed behind his boss's desk, which was still shuddering and creaking after being punched powerfully. "Mac. Listenna me, will you? She's gonna be _fine_. Stella's not gonna let herself get hurt, get me? Do you even understand who we're _talkin'_ about? Stella Bonasera. She doesn't just go down without a fight." He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly.

"I let her get away!" said Mac, shaking his head furiously as he stared up at the ceiling. "I should've gone faster, I should've driven. I shouldn't have let her out of my sight!"

"_Mac_," Danny's hand found Mac's shoulder comfortingly. "From the way Flack talks about how fast you were goin', I think it woulda taken longer if you'd taken a fucking race car. You did all you could, but it just wasn't enough this time. It happens from time to time. We don't know what this man's got up his sleeve. But I _do _know Stella, and I know _you. _I know that you won't rest until you blaze a trail right through this shit and find her and take her home."

The back of Mac's office chair was caving in beneath his fist as Danny spoke. His inspirational speech was having the opposite effect on him—in fact, he felt like he was suffocating in the kind words, his breaths becoming shorter and faster.

"If she gets hurt, Danny... if she breaks a bone, if he shoots her, if he..." he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. "If he violates her, if he lays a finger on her, if she comes back in less than perfect condition, I will not be able to look at myself in the mirror for a long, long time."

"Mac, _listenna _me, _will ya? _It's _not your fault_, man."

From the middle of his chest, Mac released a wicked snarl, and punched the desk harder.

Instantly, his hyperventilating slowed and he leaned against his desk, folding his arms and placing his head on top of them. _Stella would be able to help me now, _he thought to himself, but didn't utter a sound.

Almost the entire floor of the office had gone silent, only the quiet beeping of a copy machine breaking the awkwardness. Flack came to the door with Hawkes close behind. Danny gave Mac a one-armed "manly" hug, looking helplessly up at his two fellow CSI. They shrugged, both equally as unexperienced with an emotional Mac as everyone else was.

Flack took a step forward and ushered Danny out of the way. "Mac," he murmured, a firm hand on Mac's shoulder, the other rubbing his back in circles. "We're going to get her back. There's no other way to say it—Stella's not dead, nor is she going to die. We're going to get her back."

Mac exhaled and pushed himself up, continuing to brace himself against the desk. He managed a nod and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Get back to the evidence," he directed.

Danny nodded with determination and pivoted, taking off down the hall. Flack lingered a moment, his concerned eyes bearing holes in the side of Mac's head. His boss offered a shake of his head and then motioned toward the door with it. "I'll be okay, Don," he muttered tightly. Unclenching his teeth, he sighed again.

* * *

"Get the fuck in there," Isaac spat, and slammed the door to the basement.

A hand on Stella's elbow prevented her from falling headlong down the flight of concrete stairs as she removed her blindfold.

When she turned, she saw the boy grinning at her. "Thank you," she whispered, and continued down the steps.

Before she'd been blindfolded, she'd seen a warehouse—tall, wide, grey and industrial-like. But now she knew she was underground—a small, rectangular window at ground level was the only other exit and source of heat and light besides the door.

Thoughtfully, she stood in the stream of light, shivering when she realized she could see her own breath.

"My name's Seth," the boy said in a naturally quiet, smooth voice. He sat casually against a pillar without making eye contact, instead staring down at his hands. "I'm seventeen. Started senior year recently... I'm doing really well."

Stella nodded uncomfortably and began searching.

She ran her hands along the cool cement of each of the walls, testing for weak spots, or something that could help her escape. There had to be something. _There was always something_, as Mac liked to say.

"I graduated at the top of my class junior year. Aced the SATs." Words seemed to roll off his tongue—Stella thought of a gentle stream every time he spoke. "I want to go to an arts college—maybe be a sculptor."

When she finally decided the room was empty of almost anything that could help her, she dragged a giant pile of musty blankets over to where he was seated, taking a seat a normal distance from him. "I play some guitar," he admitted. When he turned to face the door, his shaggy dark brown hair fell into his face, hiding it from her. "My birthday's in June."

It was silent after that. She handed him a blanket and placed a couple over her own body.

There was something about this kid that she couldn't place, but it was off. He sat for a few moments, his mouth making shapes but not words, seemingly trying to decide what to say. Finally, he sighed again and looked down. "So's yours."

Stella cocked her head to one side, but then froze when she realized what he meant. "So's my what?"

"Birthday." Cloudy grey eyes met hers. "The ninth, right?

The cloudiness of his eyes didn't go unnoticed by her. They were murky, a milk tone over the stormy.

Stella felt her heart rate multiplying and took a deep breath. One crisis at a time.

"How do you know my birthday?" She kept her voice even and strong.

He shook his head. "You're a cop, right?"

She nodded wearily.

"You're going to think I'm a part of this." He looked away. "You're going to blame me. I don't want to go to jail, Detective Bonasera. I've put up with so much—"

"How did you know my name?" she demanded, now becoming suspicious and defensive. "_Seth—_"

He stood up and kicked the empty dresser against the far wall.

It clicked in Stella's head then. He walked around the room with a sense of familiarity. He'd known where the pillar had been to lean against it, and he hadn't searched an inch. He'd known. Even if he wasn't blind or becoming so, any normal person would've looked for a way out with Stella.

"You've been here before," she said. "You're blind, too."

"Not blind," he growled. "Close enough to it. At least my sketches and sculptures don't suffer from it."

"But you know this place."

He nodded curtly once and scoffed. "Know this place? I fucking live this place, Stella. Look at me—I'm a fucking ghost. Do I look like I get sun to you? He locks me down here and leaves me here. Gives me a pencil and a piece of fucking paper and tells me to entertain myself, to _draw _myself out of this mess. Sculpt myself a knife to kill him with. He didn't accept me when I wanted to be a fucking artist. He wanted me to be a cop, like you—wanted me to be a marine. He wanted to capture your friend, Mac Taylor, but when he realized that he had his gun on him, he went for the next best prize."

Stella shook her head wildly, ignoring it when her curls hit her in the face. "Explain yourself."

"I just did!"

"Are you his son, Seth?

Seth stopped and paled. "I've never been his son. I've got his DNA, but I've never been a child to him. I'm a fucking prisoner."

He walked back to the pillar and sank to his knees, leaning his head against it. "He was obsessed with you, Stella. He watched you, fantasized about you. Obviously, he's a fucking whack job. Never takes his medicine. And now that he's got you," he looked up with a frightened glance, "he's not going to want to let you go. Not alive, anyway."

Stella wrapped the blankets around her and rose, standing near the window, looking up with hope in her eyes.

Seth closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"So am I," she responded. But she wasn't ready to give up yet.

And neither would Mac.

* * *

a/n: **songcred: **"Wasteland", Augustana.

just realized i suck at writing, too many commas and shit.  
sorry, i'll try to improve.


	4. Break

4.

"Lost in your thoughts again, consciously you think of me  
Focus your perfect words with a pen you write me in  
I can't be reached, so far from here, I need you near."

* * *

"The blood on the napkin dispenser doesn't match the blood at the scene," Sid revealed tightly to Danny, trying to keep his cool. "The napkin dispenser blood matched Blackwell's, and it was Stella's blood on his hands. The blood at the scene is male."

"Have you told Mac yet?"

Sid closed his eyes. "I can't find him. Even if I could, how am I supposed to look at him?" he sighed, defeated. "All I can see is agony in his eyes."

Through his fury, Danny found a way to smile sadly. "He loves her. It's tearin' him apart, knowin' she's hurt. Knowin' she's shot."

Sid looked away. "Thinking she's dead," he added bitterly.

* * *

Stella dreamed of bats. Well, not at first. The dream started out happily—she had shown up at the office like a normal day. They'd checked out a few bodies, and by the end of the day, slain a few bad guys. Just as she had walked home, the warm summer breeze perfuming her curls, and laid down peacefully in bed, the bats had swarmed into her room, awakening her from her slumber.

When she opened her mouth, a scream leaked out, but then a hand silenced her and held her to the ground. "Pretend to sleep," Seth's calm voice demanded in her ear. "Trust me, please."

And then he was gone, back to his place presumably.

The basement door flew open, and the bats were gone. "Did you get your present?" came Isaac's voice, a drunken roar that shattered the calm essence of the night. He navigated down the stairs quickly, which admittedly impressed Stella. He kicked something off the floor—there was the bat noise—and it hit the ground again, sliding a few inches.

_A notebook_, she deduced. The pages had sounded like a bat's wings when they rippled through the air.

Taking no heed to the fact that Stella was "sleeping," he stumbled loudly next to the boy. There was a shockingly loud smash—so loud that Stella nearly cried out again—and Seth groaned painfully. Isaac laughed and moved again, the glass crunching beneath his feet. The air smelled of alcohol and blood.

Had he smashed the bottle over his son's head?

Rage flooded Stella in a sea of red, but she focused on keeping her breathing steady. _Think it through. Don't screw it up now, this is your chance. He's off-guard._

"Lookit that," he laughed again over the sound of his son's choked breaths. "Looks like your pencils won't save you here!" There was the sound of light _tink-tink-tinks_, what Stella assumed to be pencils dropping to the floor as he overturned a bucket of some sort. "But that cop girl, she could get you out of here. If she wanted to. But she just loves me too much!" he cackled wildly. "She'll be mine eventually, you know. She will! You just wait, _I told you so, I tooooo—_"

In one fluid motion, Stella flew to her feet, throwing a blind punch into the darkness. Seth staggered out of the way, a hand pressed to the top of his head.

The drunken monster fought back with frightening expertise while intoxicated. Stella shouted for Seth to run to the door, to break it down, to do anything at all, but his body didn't move from the place it lay on the concrete.

"Think you can get away from me, huh?"

Stella noticed he was cleanly shaved now with dark stubble growing back. His beard must've been dyed white. Maybe it had been fake.

A knife was pressed to her neck now, cold and angry. "You can't get away from me," he breathed heavily, almost laughing. "It can't happen. Not in your memories, anyway."

A shove. The ground. Then: _nothing_.

* * *

"So," Flack began, stepping into the interrogation room, "are you going to tell me what happened, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?" He stepped forward to lean against the back of the chair. "Either would be great, but I'd probably have more fun with the second.

This was why Flack loved the detective life—it was a full-course meal that he ate everyday. The appetizer was the adrenaline in his blood as he chased the killer. The main course was doing what he was doing now—verbally beating the shit out of men twice his width and nearly a foot taller than him—with a side of blood and sometimes frustration. The dessert was the most satisfying feeling one could ever possess; success in the name of justice.

But now the food had gone sour, replaced with nothing but a tornado of absolute rage and an emotionally distraught, pissed off Flack.

Orvan Blackwell sat back in his chair across from the Detective, his arms crossed smugly over his chest. He hadn't demanded a lawyer yet, but he hadn't spoken a word. The pleasure he had with himself was tangible, and Flack was centimeters away from gathering into a ball, lighting it on fire, and forcing it down the man's throat mercilessly.

"You're a bartender there, hm? Your blood was found on the napkin dispenser, so don't try to screw with me there. Stella's blood was found on your gloves."

Blackwell didn't move.

_Motive_, Flack thought. _What could motivate someone to want to hurt Stella. _

He sighed when he realized he didn't have an answer for that.

He looked Blackwell up and down—he must've been two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. Tan, tall, massive. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"How old are you, Dragonboy? Do you mind if I call you that—Dragonboy? You just kind of remind me of one. Large. Lethal. Easily slain by men less than half their size." He leaned in closer. "That'd be me in the metaphor," he whispered acidly. "Tell me your age or you'll regret it."

Though in any other situation he'd be terrified of this man, Flack was surprisingly unafraid. His anger was flooding over, spilling into every other emotion.

That was when he lost control.

The chair in his hands took flight and flipped in the air, hitting the wall and chipping the paint. He leant over the table, his voice potent with fury.

"God _dammit_, you had _better _open your mouth and start telling me what the fuck you know or you're going to regret _ever _setting foot in that bar and ever even _looking _at Stella Bonasera! I'll kick your ass myself. You're _done! _Open your mouth, and fucking tell me what I want to know! That's a _cop _out there! If we have to beat information out of you, your life is going to become so much more miserable than it needs to be!"

When he stopped, he was panting, his lungs trying to catch up but his heart not allowing it. This man knew what had happened to Stella. He _knew_.

And he wasn't talking.

Flack gritted his teeth.

"She's prob'ly dead by now, jus' sayin'," Blackwell shrugged his shoulders. "Tha's what he planned, anyways."

Donald Flack exploded.

Letting out a cry of anger, he threw himself at the suspect, punches flying like darts through the air. The man easily threw him off with a slight grunt and rose to his feet, kicking Flack as he tried to get up off the floor.

Drawing in a breath, Flack rolled and jumped up, getting Orvan in the cheek from behind. Aggravated, the giant turned and socked Flack in the jaw and then the stomach again. Flack fell to his knees. _Stella is counting on you. Stella is captured somewhere, being tortured, or hurt, or bleeding. Dead. And you can't get the only person who knows shit to talk. You try to fight him, jeopardizing your position in the case. And you can't even win._

And in a flash, he was on his feet again. The pain was nothing, and his clenched fists spoke for him. He didn't look up as he screamed, delirious. "_Where the fuck is she?_" he shouted uncharacteristically, his teeth tight though his jawbone disliked it. Incomprehensible babble sputtered from his lips. Orvan hadn't let up on hitting, either, but Flack was in such a hysterical state that he couldn't understand anything anymore.

Mac burst through the door, launching himself between the two. Danny and Hawkes trailed quickly, the two of them restraining Blackwell. Mac tried to calm Flack down, but his fellow CSI only sank to his knees and began to cry, softly at first, gradually building up to a bawl.

Somewhere inside, beneath the rage and strong exterior, Flack knew Stella was dead. He was positive. He'd heard the gunshot. He'd heard her scream instantly cut off through the phone. He'd seen her blood on a man's hands.

"She's dead," he choked out brokenly, shaking his head. "She's dead. The son of a bitch killed her already. And I couldn't do a thing."

Mac froze where he'd been rubbing the other man's back and rose to his feet.

Danny and Hawkes were unable to process the expression on Mac's face—it was one he'd never had before. Confusion. Torturous pain. Revenge. But mostly, like he was slowly but surely losing all traces of life remaining inside him.

Without another look to anyone, Mac turned and walked briskly out of the room, speeding up as Danny called to him, following him out the door. "Mac!" he called. "Mac, we don't know that she's dead!"

Blackwell was led out of the room, and Danny turned to see Hawkes helping Flack to his feet. Though he could tell Flack was embarrassed, Danny knew nobody would judge him for it. He'd known Stella the longest, aside from Mac. He cared for Stella. His exterior had been chipped away, leaving him vulnerable.

Danny stood idly. His team was falling apart around him. Now he felt heavy—if Stella was dead, where did they go now? What was supposed to happen?

But she wasn't dead. No matter what, he couldn't believe that. Stella didn't just _die _without warning.

Turning back into the room, he eyed Flack. "She's alive," he said simply. Two words that kept him going.

When he pivoted, he headed back to the evidence room. He wouldn't sleep tonight.

* * *

It made Seth bitter to realize that his creativity would always remain, even if his eyesight didn't.

The thoughts, the ideas, the artistic ability he possessed would never leave him. Without vision, he was a useless artist. But now, as he squinted at his sketchpad, he hoped it looked okay. While he was sure she was passed out, he'd felt the contours of her face—memorized how she must look, surveyed her curls. That was all he needed.

She'd been an easy draw—a sketch so simple, but hopefully beautiful. He drew her lying down, only much more comfortable than she must be—a feathery down pillow rested beneath her head and her eyes were open, a pleasant but knowing smile across her lips. The multiple blankets draped over her fell limply at her neck. The bruises and blood spattered across her was eliminated in the drawing. She looked happy.

That was when she stirred. Seth's pencil stopped.

She moved her legs first, and winced as she did it.

My eyes caught something discernible from the black blanket—a flash of tanned skin emerging from beneath it. As she shifted more, he discovered that both her calves were bare.

Next to her feet, there was a blob of dark blue.

Her jeans.

Something had happened after he'd been bashed on the head with the bottle.

When he looked back at her, she was grimacing. "What's up?" she asked, trying to sit up dizzily.

It didn't take her long to make the connection.

"I..." she closed her eyes and shook her head. "S-Seth?"

"Stella, _what happened?_"

She opened her mouth before she spoke. "I... I don't know," she forced out. "He pushed me to the floor and I blacked out, and then..." tears spilled from her eyes.

"That son of a bitch," Seth growled. "That sorry son of a bitch."

* * *

I realize this is the second of two serious CSI: NY stories of mine that involve sexual assault on Stella. I know it's an overused plotline, but I really like to see/create how Mac helps her through this, which is what I'm trying to create here.

So I'm sorry if anyone finds it offensive.

**Songcred: **"Sleep" OneRepublic.

Btws; I know Flack was wikkkid OOC, but then again we never see him like this. Or at least I haven't. Sorry about that.

I really hate how this chapter turned out.


	5. Life

"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl  
Year after year, running over the same old ground  
What have you found? The same old fears  
Wish you were here."

* * *

When Danny placed his hands around Lindsay's waist, it felt out of place. Not because they were in the lab—they snuck PDAs like a couple of addicts in that case—but because of the situation and emotional state the entire lab was in. Confusion. Loss. Absolute helplessness.

Except for Mac. Nothing could ever launch Mac into the feeling of helplessness; there was always something to do, connections to be made, evidence to be processed, hope to be exercised. The thought of this normally would've put a smile on his face because of the knowledge that no matter how many people stopped looking, Mac always would, but he was too somber to even feel positive.

Lindsay almost shook him off, but decided against it, instead remaining awkwardly under his embrace, which turned quickly from seductive to comforting. He felt the same way too. There were few times when Lindsay and Danny weren't on the same emotional page.

He knew that she looked up to Stella. A confident, independent woman who always got the job done and fought through anything that stood in her way. Stella had always said she would never be a body at a crime scene, that she would never let it happen. And if it did, she always jokingly promised that she'd make it the toughest scene Mac would ever see in all his years on the team, leaving enough evidence but in a scattered, unlikely fashion.

Though it was only a result of her teasing, Danny swore he saw Mac fidget and begin to sweat uncomfortably at the thought of such a situation.

"Montana."

The nickname fanned over her hair in a warm breath. It had become less and less common, but Danny knew that every time he said it, she was home—home in his arms, like a golden field of wheat swaying in a lazy summer breeze, where nothing was wrong and everything was right.

Usually this euphoric feeling lasted for more than a few seconds, but today that was all the satisfaction she'd get. She turned around to face him, pressing her face into his chest and trying not to cry. Stella wouldn't cry; Stella would be strong.

But she wasn't Stella, she decided, and allowed the silent tears to escape the corners of her eyes.

Instantly, Danny pulled her closer, resting his chin on her head and running a hand through her hair. "Hey," he whispered. "Hey, hey, don't cry, alright?" His voice was thick with emotion as well, frustration and loss bundled tight with incapability. "Listen," he began, pulling her back so he could look at her. She avoided his eyes, ashamed of the warm liquid spilling from them. "Look at me, Linds, okay? Just look."

Her eyes slowly met his.

"She's gonna put up a fight. I don't think I know one person who's not scared shitless of Stella."

Lindsay was shocked into laughter, and Danny smiled genuinely for the first time in a while.

"Mac's at the top of that list. Only one person can terrify Mac, and that would be Stella. Second person on the list..." he shrugged, "prob'ly Sid."

Lindsay gave a small smile.

"That's what I like to see." He rubbed her back and pulled her back in for a hug. "I know it's tough, but you can't be thinkin' negative like that, alright?"

"You keep saying, 'It's Stella, nothing can happen to her,'" she countered softly, "but it can. Her determination could be the thing that... that gets her killed."

"But guess what?"

Lindsay looked up at him again.

"It's not gonna be."

* * *

Stella put her clothes on slowly, inching them tenderly over the bruises on her skin. Violated. She felt so, so violated, and she had no idea how to respond to it. Of course, she'd had her fair share of abusive foster parents, but never like this.

The shaking had started moments after the realization, and now it wouldn't stop—it was painful, not just a quiver but lurching by every part of her body. It took three tries to get her left leg into her pants, and five for her right.

Seth faced the other direction and tried to calm his breathing. He'd just met this cop, but he already liked her—it was clear to tell she had a good head on her shoulders. Nobody deserved what his father had done, but especially not a talented, kind-hearted cop who was taken hostage.

Very few things were keeping him from running up those stairs, beating the door with his bare hands until it broke down, and then breaking his father's neck—one was because he wanted to keep an eye on Stella, another was because he knew the door wasn't going to break no matter what he threw at it.

"Stella?" he asked tenderly, keeping his voice low.

She sniffled and said, "Yes," under her breath, so quietly that he might have imagined it. When he turned around, she was fully clothed but huddled beneath her blankets, her face void of any emotion.

"Stella?" he asked again. "Listen, I'm going to go try to—to get a phone, or something," he rattled off. She didn't move. "Just... you'll be okay, okay? Just keep your eyes open, remain calm. I'm not gonna let him do anything else to you." He took a step closer and outstretched his hand to touch her arm comfortingly.

Her eyes flashed to his and a look of horror slipped into them, and she cringed away from him. He took a step back instantly and dropped his hand to his side. Instead, he piled up the blankets he'd used at the bottom of the staircase, thinking ahead in his plan.

When he turned around, Stella's zombielike state was gone and she was cradling his sketchpad.

"I... I might've gotten it off," he admitted in a whisper. "My eyesight's going fast."

Absentmindedly she ran her hands over it, studying it. She looked up at him with a grateful look. He smiled as genuinely as he could and turned to the staircase, and began to pound on the door.

There were a few hesitant steps and then the door flew open, revealing Isaac; angry, frightening, and armed. Fearless, Seth wasted no time throwing himself at his father, knocking the man onto his back on the hardwood floors.

The gun fired once into the air, piercing a hole through the ceiling, but Seth got up and ran anyway, his thought only on one item.

* * *

Something hit the pile of blankets with a dull thud when Stella reached the tenth picture in Seth's sketchpad, and she almost screamed in terror.

The commotion upstairs had been drowned out by the peace induced from his artwork, so lifelike and beautiful, full of hope and wonder. Now she heard the gunshots and the shouts and the shattering of glass, and with this thought in mind, she hurried over to the blankets.

A house phone.

The shaking was back now. Her body lurched painfully as he heard his voice screaming upstairs, screaming her name, screaming Seth's.

A number. Any number.

She opted for the only one she could remember.

* * *

Normally, Danny would've groaned and complained, "That _ringtone!_" but once again, the situation didn't call for humor. He was out of place a lot lately.

He stared at Mac's phone for a second and wondered if he should answer it, but then decided not to. God only knew what would happen.

Mac apparently teleported into the room then, because Danny hadn't seen him walk through the door and there was virtually no other entrance. The phone was open and to his ear in a swift instant, his last name slipping from between his lips a millisecond after answering.

The expression on his face went from relief to anger to fright in a brief moment.

"Mac, I don't know where I am," came Stella's stressful voice into his ear, "you have to come find me, he's shooting upstairs, I don't have my gun, and..." she sounded so, so lost, something that Stella never was, no matter what weapons she did or did not have. Something had happened, Mac deduced. Something very, very bad had happened to make her snap like this.

"We're coming. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Just keep talking, just stay hidden... don't go near him, okay? If he comes near you, you need to get the _hell _out of there. Stella, can you hear me?"

She blubbered on and on, saying things he couldn't comprehend, as he yelled off the phone number to Danny, who quickly typed it into one of the computers to get a location.

"We got an address, a house. I'm going to call Flack—"

"We don't have time." Mac kept the phone to his ear as he stalked out of the room, Danny keeping on his heels. "She hears gunshots. Something's wrong with her. We need to get there, _now_."

He broke into a run and put the blinders on everything else.

Stella was alive.

Alive.

_Alive_.

* * *

**songcred; **Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.


End file.
